Five Apologies and One
by Rianna Lauren
Summary: There were five times Sherlock and John apologized to each other, and the one time their apologies went unspoken. Final chapter includes a Reichenbach interpretation, published before S2E3. Thank you for all your reviews/favorites/alerts!
1. Priorities

**Chapter One: Priorities**

They were running.

It wasn't anything unusual, chasing criminals through the dark, cool night in London. They loved the thrill, craved the adrenaline, and the danger felt terribly wonderful. Sherlock had solved a case of theft just the other day, a gang of robbers plotting to steal an absolutely expensive emerald ring owned by a very wealthy lady.

Her cousin arranged the whole robbery, obviously.

Tonight, they caught them red-handed. Their immediate reaction was to make a run for it – and a very quick one. So there they were, Sherlock and John speeding through alleyways in chase of two of the gang members. Or rather, Sherlock speeding through alleyways in chase of two of the gang members with John trying to catch up behind him.

At one point, one of the robbers yelled something to the other, and they ran separate ways. Sherlock growled in frustration and chased after one of them, while gesturing towards the other one.

"John," Sherlock yelled to him.

"On it," John received the command with a nod, chasing after the criminal to the other way.

This one was a tad bit slower than his companion, which was something John was grateful for. He was absolutely sure he had no energy left, his quick breaths were uncontrollable and his legs were starting to hurt. But he pushed through – let the adrenaline flow and it would all be fine.

John hadn't noticed where he was running to until the criminal swore very loudly. He gained up on him and slowed down with a grin.

A dead end.

Marvelous.

"No way out," John announced and ran up to him. "Turn yourself in or you won't like how this will go."

John grabbed him by the shoulder when the criminal pulled out a gun, utter panic written all over his face. The safety clicked off, but John quickly knocked it away and twisted back both of his arms, restraining him to place.

He was still panting from the running, but managed to breathe out a victorious, "Nice try."

He was about to find a way to keep him restrained while calling for Lestrade when a loud, agonized scream shattered through the air. John had his breath caught on his throat.

"Sherlock."

His grip loosened in the distraction, and the criminal struggled free. He quickly turned around and gave John a hard kick on his chest, sending him flying to the wall.

The alleyway was once again wide open and the criminal ran out, escaping to the busy streets of London.

John got on his feet with a groan, holding his pained chest as he gasped for as much oxygen as possible. The scream rang out again and John listened with a frown.

He knew the criminal would already escape, but his eyes scanned his surroundings anyway, just to make sure of it. Gone – but maybe if he ran again, fast enough and with the luck of getting the right direction, he might still be able to catch up.

But he wouldn't.

Sherlock comes first.

John jogged out to the side of the streets, still gasping. After scanning one lane after the other, he finally found him – a lump of coat and dark curls slumped on the ground.

"Oh God," John whispered and ran to his side. He slowly and carefully turned him over and checked for injuries. A large bruise stood out on his cheek, and multiple cuts decorated his chest and shoulders, blood seeping from his wounds. John took off his jacket and pressed it against his chest as Sherlock moaned in pain in response.

"Why are you never careful with knives?" John whispered as he kept the pressure. "I'm calling an ambulance this time."

"No," Sherlock choked out. "No hospital."

John glared at him. "Sherlock. You're losing blood, you need medical treatment."

"And I have my own doctor."

"I'm serious."

"It's nothing _you_ can't stitch up."

John tried to glare even harder, but finally gave in. "Alright, _fine_, but if it gets any worse, I _will_ call an ambulance."

After he successfully folded and tightened his jacket around Sherlock, he gently guided him to sit up and lean on the wall until he regained enough energy.

"Did you get the ring?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

John looked up and muttered, "What?"

"The ring," Sherlock repeated. "It wasn't with her cousin; it was with the other one you were chasing."

John blinked. "But her cousin took the—"

"Yes, but obviously at some point, knowing that it was him we were mainly on to, he had to hide it on his companion, the ring would still have a chance if he ever got caught," Sherlock explained. "You didn't get to him?"

"No, no, I did, I had him restrained."

"…And?"

"And, well, I heard you scream…"

"You let him go."

"No! I mean, I didn't mean to," John confessed, then sighed. "He struggled through, broke loose, then I ran to look for you—"

"You still could've got to him."

"It was _your_ voice screaming!"

Sherlock leaned back his head and let out a noise in exasperation. "It'll take _weeks_ to find them again!"

John ran a hand through his hair and buried his face on his knees. Of course he was disappointed, but had he not gotten to Sherlock sooner, who knows what would happen to him.

"Look, I'm sorry about the ring, but you can't expect me to hear that and just… _ignore_ you," John argued. Sherlock looked away and chose not to answer. John couldn't believe how impossible this man was being.

They managed to get a cab and went safely back home. Sherlock sat on the sofa, holding an ice pack on his bruised cheek, still refusing to say anything. John was next to him, cleaning and carefully stitching the cuts on Sherlock's chest.

They were in silence for a long while, until John finished his work and cleaned up. He decided to start a conversation. "These are really bad. Should've called an ambulance…"

"They'd both be out of town by now," came Sherlock's grumbled reply.

"Right," John muttered. He stood up abruptly, the anger fueling inside him. "Will you _please_ just let go of that?"

"We'll never find it now."

"I didn't go after him because _you_ were in trouble, Sherlock, I would've done otherwise if that wasn't the case," John yelled, his voice raising. "I did it because _you_ are someone I consider far more important than burglars running around with a ring. I thought you'd appreciate, or at least _understand_."

Sherlock stared at the coffee table, his eyes narrowing, not looking at John.

"I thought you'd do the same, but," John continued as he climbed the stairs to his room, "You're _Sherlock Holmes_."

Sherlock didn't move until he heard the door to John's room slam shut. He removed the pack from his cheek and threw it to the floor, cracking the ice inside. He lost the ring, he lost the whole gang, and now John was upset with him.

He really didn't like it.

Sherlock tried to lean back but immediately winced as the wounds on his chest prevented him to. He gazed accusingly at the stitches and then frowned.

Appreciate – he did, he really did, but not enough to show. Understand – he couldn't. No. He could, but he always refused to.

John was always there. He made tea, stitched up his wounds, and chase down criminals with him. There was absolutely nothing he wouldn't do for Sherlock. He would take any risks, he would go through any danger, and he would do anything for Sherlock's life.

Nobody else would do the same.

Sherlock felt that he had to say something to him. He had to fix it, but he couldn't bring himself to it. After minutes of debate with his own mind, he decided to turn on the telly and drown himself in it.

Not that it worked, though.

Hours later, still unmoving from his spot on the sofa, Sherlock heard the sound of muffled footsteps going downstairs. Then, a pause.

"_Sherlock_?"

"John."

He heard a sigh, there were hesitant footsteps approaching him, then a flop to the chair across the sofa. "Sherlock... I'm sorry, for bursting out like that. I shouldn't have yelled," he started. "I know I should've chased him down while I could. I'll help you out tomorrow, tracking him down and everything."

"No."

John looked up. "No?"

"It… It wasn't your fault," Sherlock mumbled. "You did the right thing. And I _do_ appreciate and I _do_ understand. You were there, and you always were, and it wasn't right for me to act like that. I'm sorry."

John gave him a look, trying to figure out if he really meant what he said, so Sherlock continued.

"Nobody else would do the same."

"…Save your life?"

"And put me at the top of their priorities."

John couldn't resist smiling. "_Your_ life is worth saving."

Sherlock returned his smile and leaned back, the pain on his wounds now forgotten.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I'd do the same for you."

A widened smile. "I know."


	2. Loyalty

**Chapter Two: Loyalty**

The heavy rain outside 221B Baker Street finally turned into drizzle, tapping only lightly against the cool, foggy windows. John walked out of the kitchen and into the living room with two steaming cups of tea. He set them on the table, sat on his chair, and sighed at the sight of Sherlock pacing through the room. He finally stopped and turned towards the wall – the one with tens of articles stuck on it and Sherlock was staring at for hours.

Cases of serial killers were always his favorite, but this one was very slippery. Every time they gained on him, he always got away in the end. Last night was their third attempt to get to him, and it didn't end up well.

The violent weather last night hadn't been much of a help. Sherlock was on the stakeout all night, ignoring the rain that continuously attacked him. John was only able to drag him back indoors when the murderer escaped them – again. They went back home cold and shivering, but nothing was going to get in Sherlock's way.

He stayed up all night, pasting more papers and articles to the wall. He kept drawing lines and connecting dots, studying everything and repeating them, with his fingers stapled below his chin.

It was only this morning that John discovered his orders for Sherlock to get some sleep were disobeyed – not much to be surprised about. But when John also discovered that Sherlock caught himself a fever, thanks to last night's events, John didn't want his orders to be taken lightly any longer.

So John made them tea and waited for Sherlock to sit down and drink his tea, as he was told to.

It didn't happen.

"You are _not_ going to solve anything with a temperature like that," John told him with a glare. "Sit down and drink your tea."

Sherlock stayed where he was and kept staring.

John sighed in exasperation. "Sherlock."

"I _don't_ want tea, John," Sherlock finally responded.

"It's that or a plate full of healthy, nutritious breakfast," John argued and crossed his arms. "Your call."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to pace again. "I don't have time for this."

John looked at him in disbelief. "Sherlock, your temperature was almost 40 degrees Celsius, you're not well-rested and you're not well-fed."

"I am _fine_, _doctor_, or at least I will be when I solve the murderer's pattern."

"Which is really not going to happen until you drink your tea and take your medicines," John insisted.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. "Not now, that would slow me down."

He turned to the wall and stopped to concentrate. What did he miss? Five different murders, two men and three women - two were poisoned, two were suffocated, and one was stabbed.

Sherlock stopped as a sudden wave of dizziness interrupted his thoughts. He winced, and quickly looked away so John wouldn't notice.

John noticed anyway.

"Sherlock, please."

"You're wasting your time, John."

"What's so hard about for once listening to what I tell you to do?" John almost yelled.

Sherlock couldn't focus that way – he turned to John and threw his arms to his sides in anger. "I _need_ to solve this case soon or more people are going to die as we speak, John, you've always been the one caring about everyone else's lives."

John didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or as an insult.

"I have five murders with an indefinite pattern done by a killer who managed to slip away from me _three_ times, there's something missing in between all this and I can't find it with you getting in the way every other minute – I don't need all this!"

John looked up at him for a moment, then stood up and strode towards the door.

"Alright, so, I'll get out of your way," he said as he put on his jacket. "As I am obviously no longer needed around here, you can do whatever the hell you want to do. I'll personally make sure I won't be around to disrupt your train of intellectual thoughts."

Sherlock huffed. "How childish."

John paused and blinked. "…_I'm_ childish?" He gave out an ironic laugh and walked out the door. "Have it your way. You're on your own."

As soon as John was outside, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair with a shuddering breath. He wasn't in good condition, he got stuck in a case, and now he was on his own. Brilliant.

He lifted his head, standing straight as he took a deep breath. None of those mattered now. He must solve the case.

…What was the case again?

Oh, five different murders, two men and three women – one was poisoned, two were suffocated, one… No, _two_ were poisoned, one was…

Sherlock blinked rapidly and stepped back from the wall. His momentarily-blurred vision came back clear in a split second. His brows furrowed for a few moments as he breathed deeply, then tried to repeat the information in his head.

Five different murders, three men and three women…

A sudden throb on his head stopped him abruptly, sending him tumbling back towards the sofa. He gripped on it tightly and shut his eyes, swearing under his breath. How could three and three make five?

When he opened his eyes, his vision was blurry again. He tried to blink them away, but it didn't work. He tried to stand back up, but his knees began to buckle. Sherlock finally lost his balance and fell to the floor with a thud. He cried out in pain, but it came out as a short raspy cough. He closed his eyes again, everything turning black. Then, he remembered.

He was still on his own.

John was in a fairly better mood after his lunch with Sarah and spending a few hours of his time with her. He had completely forgotten about his argument with Sherlock until Sarah pointed out that he didn't interrupt him at all today.

"No texts and no missed calls," John muttered as he checked through his phone.

Sarah chuckled. "That's very unlike him."

John shoved his phone back to his pocket with a sigh. "Ah, actually, we just sort of had a bit of… An argument…"

She frowned at him. "Why? What's wrong?"

"He's working on this case and got himself ill and he insisted on being ridiculously stubborn," he explained. "He got snappy and just _shouted_ at me—"

"Wait, ill?" she interrupted. "Is he alright?"

"He got rained on all night, caught a bit of a cold but with a really high fever, he refused to eat or sleep or take his medicines all just for that bloody serial killer."

"And you haven't heard from him since you left?"

John shook his head. "I told him I'm not helping him with the case."

"Yes, but… Is he really alright?"

John's eyes shifted – her voice was the sound of a doctor's concern to a patient, John's mind went into thoughts of a deeper concern to a friend. He looked down. "…I'm not sure."

Sarah gave him a look. As much as she enjoyed her time with John, she didn't like him fighting with his best friend. "John."

"He doesn't need me, Sarah," he said with a sigh, almost angrily.

She smiled playfully at him. "If he managed to set the kitchen on fire when he's perfectly healthy, John, he could blow up your entire flat working on a case with that fever."

John actually laughed for a moment, and then stopped with a small smile. "I should check up on him, shouldn't I?"

She shrugged. "I do love to be uninterrupted, but it doesn't feel right. He's Sherlock Holmes, after all."

And it was clear that things weren't the same when Sherlock Holmes wasn't the same.

John planted a light kiss on her cheek and grinned before dashing out the door. "Thanks, Sarah."

John stood outside the door, his hand resting on the door handle. What was he going to say? Should he apologize? No, he wasn't the stubborn and disobeying one.

He decided he was going to worry about it later and finally entered the flat. It was too quiet, and there were no signs of Sherlock anywhere. He gently closed the door behind him and took off his jacket. Now he was starting to worry. He didn't like the idea of Sherlock running around the streets on his own in that condition.

But then he walked in and reached the far end of the sofa, and he felt his insides tying into knots as panic and regret rushed through him. Unconscious on the floor was Sherlock Holmes, whom he had left on his own.

Sherlock woke up on his bed, and then wished he hadn't. His throat felt terribly dry, he was too weak to move even the slightest, and the room wouldn't stop spinning. Then he felt a cool, damp towel being moved away from his forehead and a warm, gentle hand softly pushing back the dark curls on his head. He glanced sideways to see John sitting next to his bed, offering a small smile.

"Hey," John murmured.

"You're back," Sherlock managed to reply, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course I am, you idiot."

"But it's not the end of your shift yet."

John didn't even think of asking how he knew that, only moments after he woke up. Sherlock shifted on his bed and attempted to move, but his whole body ached, and he groaned in pain.

"No - _don't_ move," John commanded as he refreshed the towel and returned it to Sherlock's forehead. He reached down to his wrist, feeling the weak, steady beat of his pulse. "Okay, you're cooling down but you're still very weak, so don't move too much or you won't be healing."

Sherlock was silent and held his gaze on John. John pulled back and sighed, shaking his head.

"Sherlock Holmes, what am I supposed to do."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line and averted his gaze to the ceiling.

"This is getting ridiculous," John muttered. "You _do_ need to eat, you _do_ need to rest, and even though I'll always be looking after you, you need to take care of yourself. You work like a machine but you are human. It's not a weakness, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer, but his eyes casted downwards. Sherlock knew but he didn't realize what it was – he didn't like having weaknesses, he _hated_ being vulnerable. He was stubborn, but John stayed by his side.

John's face softened, all the emotions leaving him. He gave a gentle squeeze to Sherlock's wrist before standing up to walk out of the room. "Get some rest; I'll make you something to eat."

"John," Sherlock called out hoarsely as John stopped in his tracks.

"I'm sorry."

John looked at him before smiling. "Don't worry about it. Just… Don't do it again. You scared me."

When he walked out, he could still hear Sherlock's whisper of "Thank you."


	3. Trust

**Chapter Three: Trust**

When the last of his patients walked out of the room, John exhaled and stood up as he stretched. His day had been surprisingly slow. He had a long, untroubled sleep last night, his work hadn't been interrupted all day, and Sherlock hadn't texted him for any new case. Or to tell him they were out of milk.

John walked out of the clinic and was about to head home when he spotted Lestrade leaning on the wall, staring out into the streets.

"Lestrade?" John called out.

The man looked up then walked towards him. "John," he greeted. "I was looking for you."

"You were?" he asked. "Why didn't you call?"

"I, uh, I don't think this is something we want to talk about over the phone."

John's eyes were searching Lestrade's, trying to figure out what was happening. "Why? What's going on?"

Lestrade opened his mouth, then closing it again, as if he was about to explain but not knowing where to begin. "Yeah, actually…" he finally started, then sighed. "Do you remember that last case Sherlock has been working on?"

John nodded as he recalled it. "The father killed his own daughter when she saw him smuggling, yes, what about it? It was all solved, wasn't it?"

"It was, yeah," Lestrade answered quickly. "We haven't got all the evidence but I have faith in Sherlock's deductions and everything. But we do still have to look for that missing evidence."

John nodded again, but he knew the case wasn't the problem. "And?"

"And," Lestrade continued. "You know how Sherlock likes to keep evidence to himself. I texted him to ask if he has it, but he never replied. I called as well and he never picks up either. So I _had_ to set up a drugs bust, it was just a few hours ago, and…"

He trailed off. John didn't need him to continue, but he did.

"We found drugs."

John looked down and inhaled deeply, trying to control his rushing emotions. He was shocked, angry, disappointed, frustrated, and so much more that he couldn't even describe.

"Okay," John whispered. "Where is he now?"

"Not in the flat, don't know where he's gone off to," Lestrade answered softly. "That's why I looked for you. If he's high—"

"No," John cut off. "No, he's not, he can't…"

He ran his hand over his face and breathed shakily. Lestrade gave him a moment and he eventually calmed down.

"I honestly don't know where he is, he hasn't contacted me all day," John mumbled. "What are you going to do now?"

"Keep an eye out for him, definitely. We've confiscated the drugs – well, what we could find, anyway. And… I don't like having to arrest him or anything, John, if he's using—"

"He's not," John said firmly, holding on to his faith in Sherlock. "He promised. He promised _me_."

"He promised me too, John."

"…He can't break that, can he?"

"I don't know."

John started to pace around. "I'll find him. I-I'll find him, and I'll talk to him, just… Give me time, please give me time."

He immediately went home, his heart pounding and his mind swimming at the thought of Sherlock high on drugs. But as he ran up the stairs and burst through the door, the tall, lean figure was lying on the couch, plucking on his violin.

A moment passed as they stared at each other. John had his mouth slightly hung open, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John finally spoke up, his voice slightly cracking. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Sherlock answered calmly. "I had to finish another case."

John was still standing there in utter disbelief. A small part of him was relieved that he wasn't sprawled on the bathroom floor, pale and sweating, throwing up endlessly into the toilet bowl. But he wasn't exactly happy that Sherlock was acting as if nothing happened.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"I was busy."

"Lestrade was looking for you. _I've_ been looking for you."

"So I figured."

"He told me everything."

"Did he?"

Sherlock's tone was an indifferent one, and John had finally run out of patience. He made his way across the room and snatched away the abused violin. Sherlock pouted and glared, but John was taking none of that.

"Stop it."

"Stop _what_?"

"He found _drugs_, Sherlock!" John finally screamed. "There were _drugs_ in the flat, and you, you're just…"

His voice was breaking, and he didn't know how to continue. Sherlock's eyes flickered as he got up to his feet and walked away, brushing past John. John quickly grabbed his shoulder in fury and turned him around.

"No, I am _not_ finished with you!"

Sherlock's face hardened. "What the _hell_ do you want from me, John?"

"What do I…?" John breathed out in frustration. "_Why_ are you keeping drugs in the flat? Why have you been using… How could you?"

"It's none of your business."

"Of course it's my business! You said you'll never be using ever again, you _promised_ me! How do you think _I _would feel if I came home to a flatmate high on drugs? I didn't give you my trust just to have it broken, Sherlock, how could you be so… Selfish?"

Sherlock didn't bother to answer this time. He merely turned back and made his way towards his room. As John watched him leave, he flopped down to his seat and closed his eyes, feeling betrayed. He _would_ hope Sherlock hadn't locked himself in to use even more, but at this point, he didn't even know if he should care anymore.

Hours passed and Sherlock still hadn't come out of his room. John had received four texts from Lestrade, but he replied to none of them. He couldn't go through, because he knew he would always care anyway, and he couldn't let the whole thing to go on.

So he walked up to his door and gently knocked.

"Sherlock?" he called out softly. "We have to talk, open the door."

Silence. He knocked again, now leaning on the door.

"Look, you can't go on like this, Sherlock, open the door," John begged, his voice still very low. "Please?"

He could hear the bed shifting from inside, but there was still no reply and the door still didn't open.

After a few moments of hesitation, John finally turned the doorknob himself, finding it unlocked. He entered to see Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. John let the door close behind him and slowly made his way to the bed, sitting next to Sherlock. Neither said a word for a few moments, until John finally sighed.

"You have to stop using, Sherlock," John muttered. "Please. I know how drug addictions are, but you can't give in, I know you're much better than this."

Then there was one slow shake of Sherlock's head. "I haven't been using."

John blinked then leaned back. "So _now_ you're going to try and see if lying is going to help anyone with anything—"

"I'm not lying," Sherlock snapped at him and looked away. "It's the truth."

John pulled his legs up and crossed them on the bed, facing Sherlock as he laid his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, look at me," he mumbled. "Look at me in the eyes and tell me you haven't been using."

Sherlock slowly lifted his gaze – steady, unwavering, but pleading for this man to believe him – and moved it right into his eyes. "I _haven't_ been using."

With that look of honesty, John was convinced, and he let himself sigh in relief. "Then why did Lestrade find drugs? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because you were _right_," Sherlock responded, the loudness in his voice surprising himself. "You were right about everything. I _was_ going to use, I had every intention to, there was almost no resistance and it was hard to let go! It was just as bad and just as betraying to you, but… But you have to know that this is _difficult_, John, it's not easy. How do I let go of something _so_…"

He didn't continue. He didn't want to, he didn't know how to.

"I almost went there but I didn't when I managed to tell myself that I promised you I wouldn't use anymore," Sherlock mumbled.

John was beginning to understand. Sherlock went through a great struggle by himself; he fought against his own temptations, all because he promised John, all for John.

He never did break that trust.

So John took him in his arms, embracing him gently, and Sherlock buried his head to his chest, relaxing under the touch.

"I'm sorry," John whispered. "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

They stayed for a moment, and then pulled away, John still holding Sherlock by his shoulders. "I was wrong. What you went through was an enormous battle with yourself. You kept your promise, and… You're _not_ selfish. You kept my trust and I am proud of you."

"…Do you still trust me now?"

John nodded with a small smile. "Always, Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed at him in gratitude. So long as John was there, he was sure he would never cross that line.

He was going to be alright.


	4. Care

**Chapter Four: Care**

Shoving his hands down the pockets of his jeans, John Watson walked with heavy steps towards Baker Street, making his way through the freezing wind. When he was finally at the doorstep of 221B, he stood still for a moment, then leaned his forehead on the door with a sigh.

He couldn't take any more of this.

His mind was still swirling and his gut was still clenching. But then he looked up with a deep breath and grabbed the keys in his pocket.

He was home. He was home and nothing else mattered. He would go into his flat, in the warmth he had been longing for. He would stay, never come out, and _hide_ from the rest of the world. He was back – back to hot tea, crap telly, and _Sherlock_ – to his home.

John entered the living room and threw himself on the sofa His shoes and jacket were still on, and much to his dismay the flat wasn't as warm as he hoped it would be. He should make himself tea. Or have a lukewarm bath. Or reach for the remote and find the crappiest show he could watch.

But his entire being refused to move. So he closed his eyes, his face unintentionally crumpling, and curled himself on the sofa. He would forget and ignore and everything would go, go away.

When rushing footsteps climbed up the stairs and the door burst open, John shot up as Sherlock stormed in, returning from another crime scene.

"John, good, you're home," Sherlock greeted as he typed furiously on his Blackberry.

John blinked and rubbed his face, his voice muffled from behind his hands. "Yeah… Yeah, so how was the case?"

"Still not solved, but I can confirm they were kidnapped…" Sherlock trailed off when he looked up from his Blackberry with a frown. "What's the matter?"

John looked up, too. "Hmm?"

Sherlock shoved his phone back to his pocket. "You're acting unusual."

"…I am?"

"You've been home for almost half an hour, you haven't taken off your jacket and your shoes, you're not on the laptop, you're not watching telly, and you haven't even made yourself tea. What's wrong?"

John didn't even want to know how he figured out the half-an-hour part. He looked down, then back at Sherlock, shaking his head.

"It's… It's nothing. I just, uh, had a really long day."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose as it was obvious to him it wasn't only that he "had a really long day".

"There's something else."

John signed. "Do you _have_ to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pushing."

Sherlock gave him a look. His Blackberry then alerted an incoming text message. He visibly smiled.

"Lestrade found one of the victims." He strode towards the door with his coat swishing behind him. "Come on, John."

John hesitated for a while before standing up. He didn't immediately go to the door. Just then, another text message arrived. Sherlock scanned through it, and mouthed a quiet "Oh."

"…What?"

"They found her dead."

John winced at his words before absent-mindedly taking a small step back. Of course there's going to be a dead body. "I… I don't think I can go right now."

Sherlock looked back. "What? Why?"

"I just told you, I had a really long day. I don't feel like going out right now."

"But I need your help."

"Look, I can't right now, alright? I don't want to."

"You don't want to help me?"

"No, not like that!"

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the door. "Come on, we'll be running," he promised. "It'll take your mind off it."

"No, it won't."

Sherlock frowned. "But you always love the running."

"Sherlock, _please_!"

"What is _wrong_ with you, John?"

John opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again and shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"You really wouldn't."

"John."

John hissed in annoyance and finally burst out. "I _lost_ a patient, Sherlock," he yelled, his whole body felt as if he could crumble down right then and there.

Sherlock stared at him, not reacting.

"I had a patient under my care. And he died. He _died_ because _I_ was too slow and I didn't treat him properly. I was supposed to help him, make it better and save his life but I _didn't_. It was my fault, my patient died and Sarah kept giving me that look all day – do you _know_ how it feels to be so _useless_?"

Sherlock remained silent and watched.

"You don't. You don't know because you're never useless, hell, you don't even care—"

"John, stop."

But he went on. "See, this is why I said you wouldn't understand. You wouldn't understand how it feels. You don't _care_ for them; you don't feel for people dying. Why am I even telling you all this?"

It wasn't the first time John had lost a patient. It happened before during the course of his career as a doctor. But he didn't like it, he _hated_ it, and it made him question himself a good, capable doctor.

Sherlock's eyes moved for a moment before he gently asked, "So you won't come with?"

"No! Just… Shut up and get _out_, Sherlock, please, for once would you _stop_ pushing me?"

Sherlock looked away and quietly left the flat. John fell back to the sofa and sunk his face back to his palms, trying to steady his breaths. He felt worthless and horrible and the guilt wouldn't stop flooding him. He leaned his head back and, closing his eyes again, fought to escape from his thunderous state of mind.

It was 4 AM when Sherlock returned to the flat, cold and exhausted after no luck chasing the suspect. Upon entering the living room, his eyes fell on the curled up, slightly shivering figure lying on the sofa. John was asleep, but he continuously shivered and the deep visible lines on his forehead didn't disappear.

His mind raced back to the earlier afternoon. It wasn't that Sherlock couldn't feel what John expected him to feel from a long time ago. He could, but he never allowed himself to. It doesn't help his work. It doesn't help himself.

But Sherlock had a heart, even Moriarty would know.

So he got to his room and came out moments later with a pillow and a blanket. Slowly, he lifted John's head and slipped the pillow right underneath it. John suddenly shifted on the sofa, and let out what sounded like a strangled sob, and Sherlock softly hushed him, wishing whatever it was that still clouded John's mind to go away. He spread the blanket over him and sighed in relief when John finally stopped shivering and seemed to relax under it.

Sherlock sat down on the chair and spread his case files on the coffee table. He flipped and read through, over and over, trying to discover the locations of the victims. His mind was racing and rushing with deductions, but the _back_ of his mind had John's words echoing in it.

He glanced at John, then back at his papers.

By now, Sherlock should be used to having John being angry and disappointed at how he was always cold and calculating.

By now, John should be used to Sherlock acting indifferently and being emotionless, he should've understood how it was a part of him.

But even after living together for so long, these things still got in the way.

It really wasn't that Sherlock couldn't care for others, he just wouldn't. It wasn't that he never felt, he just never showed them. He was perfectly capable of caring and feeling, but then came John Watson. Then he had a friend. And the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was to let him down.

So Sherlock was going to try.

After two hours of browsing through files with a couple of nicotine patches on his arm, his Blackberry vibrated. He was again summoned to Scotland Yard. He breathed deeply and stood up, eyeing the entire flat.

It wouldn't hurt to clean up a bit. For John.

When John awoke, his eyes met the ceiling of the living room, reminding him that he fell asleep on the sofa. Then, he remembered the events yesterday. He closed his eyes again with a shaky breath.

It took him a few moments to notice the pillow under his head and the warm blanket draped over him. He turned to his side with a frown, surprised to see the flat clean of case files and chemistry experiments that he was quite sure were present last night. His gaze moved to the table where the newspaper was neatly folded and a steaming cup of tea sat comfortably on it.

John buried his face in the pillow. He had yelled, screamed, and took everything out on Sherlock. He felt like he didn't deserve any of this.

He felt like he didn't deserve Sherlock.

Sitting up and reaching out for the tea, he pulled out his phone to see the time, and an unread message sat on his inbox.

_Out for the case. Scotland Yard, if you're feeling better. SH._

"So where's John?" Lestrade asked as he turned around and shuffled through his drawer to retrieve some files. "Are you having a domestic?"

Sherlock sat on the chair in Lestrade's office. "None of your business."

"What have you done this time?"

"…It really wasn't my fault."

"So you _are _having a domestic."

Lestrade could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes behind him. Moments later when Lestrade exited his office and Sherlock was told to wait, John entered the room, meeting his eyes with a small smile.

"It's freezing," John muttered.

"Mmm, welcome to London."

John grinned, then began to giggle. Sherlock attempted to suppress his smile, but failed miserably. "What?"

"No, nothing," John replied. "Just… You know. Remember the first time you said that?"

Sherlock let his face crack into a smile as John moved to sit next to him. "Feeling better?"

John nodded. "Yeah, a lot better."

"Good."

"…And thank you, for everything. It was really thoughtful of you."

Sherlock gave him a nod in response. Silence hung in the air until John looked down and muttered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, and I got carried away. It's just… It won't leave me, Sherlock. It's following me everywhere, that guilt, knowing something went horribly wrong when I could have set it right."

John's voice sounded all too soft and fragile, so Sherlock shook his head. "You're a good doctor, John."

John silently laughed.

"No, I mean it. You _are_ a good doctor. Very good. Everyone makes mistakes every now and then, please stop feeling so guilty."

"It's not easy."

"I know. But you have to allow yourself to let go. That makes it easier."

John looked up to his friend with grateful smile. For a high-functioning sociopath, he sure did know how to make people feel better. "How come you have so much faith in me, Sherlock?"

"Because you're the person to have the same in me, from the very beginning."

And he was right. John had believed, and he would never stop believing.

"Ah, hello John," Lestrade greeted him as he entered the office with a stack of folders. "Now about that case…"

John would let go. He would let go and move on, and everything would be fine.


	5. Value

**Chapter Five: Value**

Sherlock leaned back on his chair with a heavy sigh. He tilted his head, keeping the violin on his shoulder in place. His fingers danced swiftly upon the strings as he furiously moved the bow. Strong, melodious notes rushed through the air.

John was cleaning up the dishes after their breakfast and was going to get ready for work. They both paused when the door opened and a figure entered the room, followed by the familiar sight of the swinging and swooshing of an umbrella. Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock," he replied then turned to John. "Dr. Watson."

Deciding that it was the most of attention he was going to give to his brother, Sherlock continued to play his violin, while John gestured to Mycroft from the kitchen to sit down. The door closed and Mycroft sat opposite to Sherlock, observing the untidy, disorganized flat. Then, he stared at Sherlock and his violin.

"Beautiful music."

Sherlock finished his song, striking a high, final note. He looked up at Mycroft and gave him a twisted smile. "Please," he scoffed. Mycroft tilted his head and shrugged lightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flipped his violin between his hands.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Actually—"

"Not interested."

The older Holmes glared at him. "I have a case for you."

"Still not interested."

Mycroft took a deep breath and leaned back. "I know you've got nothing on. You and Dr. Watson just finished your last case earlier this morning. 3:22am precisely."

Sherlock made an unimpressed face – and he knew John did too, from the kitchen as he finished the last of washing the dishes and headed to the door, grabbing his jacket along the way. He hadn't gotten any sleep, but he fought the tiredness inside him and went on.

"Right, I have to go now," he announced, almost weakly, mentally planning to clean up the rest of the flat after he gets home. "I'm already late."

"Have a good morning, Dr. Watson."

John gave them a nod and went downstairs, silently hoping they weren't going to kill each other in the flat while he was away.

Mycroft's gaze followed him, watching his exhausted figure exiting the flat, then snapped back to Sherlock. "He looks tired."

"He's fine."

"I know how you do things, solving cases at ungodly hours, skipping meals and not getting any sleep," Mycroft started. "But Dr. Watson—"

"Yes, thank you for your observation, Mycroft."

"_John_ is not like you," Mycroft insisted. "He can only endure with not enough sleep and food for so long."

Sherlock stopped fumbling with his violin and gave Mycroft a hard stare. "And I believe this is none of your business."

"I don't only worry about you, _brother_, not when you drag him around on cases to chase criminals."

"I don't drag him around," Sherlock muttered, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "He chose to come with me."

"And so you take him for granted."

"Your interference is not needed."

Mycroft ignored him. "He follows you around, cleans up after you, makes sure you eat and sleep, and does whatever you tell him to."

Sherlock gave him a frustrated sigh. "Why are you even bringing this up?"

"Because I have been observing and this has been let on for too long. He takes care of you and what have you been doing in return?"

"If you are under the assumption that I've been patronizing and neglecting him—"

"It's not an assumption."

Sherlock visibly winced. Was this how John had been feeling, all this time? Mycroft sighed, "I'm merely saying that he's your flatmate, your colleague."

Sherlock thought, 'Friend.'

"He can't constantly keep up with you. Knowing that he will always follow doesn't mean you can treat him any way you like."

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back with a huff. After a few moments, he looked up to his brother and mumbled, "You said you have a case."

Mycroft scoffed. "_Now _you're interested."

"I don't need you to dictate me on how to live my life with John."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "Because it won't do any good anyway unless you actually do something about it."

"We're _fine_, Mycroft, thank you for your concern."

Mycroft twirled his umbrella between his palms, then stood up. "Then I shall leave you for now and come back with the case tomorrow."

He turned to leave, but then Sherlock blurted out, "I'm not like that."

"Then let him know," Mycroft responded before walking out of the flat.

The door slammed shut, and Sherlock hit a loud, angry note on his violin. He casted the instrument away and his eyes were sweeping around the flat. He couldn't ignore the small tightness of guilt forming in his chest.

Mycroft was right.

Now his train of thoughts began to run, and it wouldn't stop running. John helped him to be at his best and always put up with him whenever he's at his worst. John followed and admired and had been ever so reliable.

Sherlock couldn't do without him.

There was underestimation and lack of appreciation – or at least that's how Sherlock felt now. John must have felt terrible being with a man like Sherlock Holmes, and yet he was holding on. He had been hiding this, hadn't he? He had kept it to himself. He could only take so much from a high-functioning sociopath; it was only a matter of time.

So Sherlock wondered how long it would take for John to have enough of it and move out.

When John came home that evening, Sherlock was slumped on the sofa with a desperate look in his eyes.

John raised an eyebrow. "No new cases then?"

"No."

"And Mycroft?"

"Not important."

John set down a plastic bag on the kitchen table and pulled out a couple of plastic boxes. "Good, so there's no reason for you not to eat. Bought you Chinese."

Slowly, Sherlock got up from the sofa and made his way to the table as John plated their food.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered when John turned away.

He blinked. "…You're welcome."

They ate in silence, a comfortable one, but eventually John sensed that something was wrong.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and kept his eyes on his food.

John looked at him again. "No, really, that's not your 'okay' look. It's not even your bored look. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sherlock insisted before he continued shoving the food into his mouth. John gave him a concerned look, but then continued his meal.

"Actually," Sherlock said after a few seconds and dropped his chopsticks into the bowl, his hands moving up to cover his face. "I… Just… I'm sorry, John."

John frowned and stopped eating. "What for?"

"So many things," he mumbled.

"Sherlock…"

"…I came to realize that this whole time I have been acting like I am taking you for granted and… I didn't mean to, I really don't…"

Sherlock sighed, trying to look for words.

"I realized I've never treated you properly while you've done so many things, so many _good_ things. And the way everyone sees it is that you follow me around, do things for me, and listen to everything I say while I leave you behind but… It's not like that and I don't want you to think that way too."

His voice lowered and he stared at the table.

"You're someone who understands me and accepts me and you are _valuable_, more than anyone could ever think of, and I do _not_ take you for granted, so I am sorry if you've ever felt that I value you less."

Sherlock breathed in relief – he was never good at these things and he felt accomplished finishing it. He looked up after a few seconds and frowned, seeing John smiling fondly at him.

"John, say something."

John broke into a chuckle. "Well, there are times when you get insufferable and arrogant and I can't always catch up with you. And although they were all really nice to hear, you didn't have to tell me all that. I already know."

Sherlock stared at him seriously. "Do you really?"

"Yes," John tried to sound as reassuring as he could. "I wouldn't be staying with you if I don't want to, Sherlock. We have our up and downs, but I do know you're not like that, taking me for granted."

Because they mean so much to each other.

Sherlock couldn't resist smiling. "I can't possibly ask for more."

"And you're the best terrible flatmate I could ever ask for," John replied with a grin as he continued his dinner. Sherlock burst into laughter and finished his dinner as well, a warm, content feeling spreading inside him.

John was essential to him and to his work, he was required if Sherlock were to function properly. He was the balance and the compass and the voice in the back of his mind, telling him whenever something he did was "a bit not good".

What's a Holmes without a Watson?


	6. Death

**Chapter Six: Death**

_Moriarty._

_The invisible force and the magnificent power behind the filthy crimes in London. The man sitting in the center of a vast, hidden network, pulling every string and in control of everything. The source of everything and nothing._

_The Napoleon of crime._

_And for me to sit here and watch as everything happens would be so, utterly ridiculous._

When John stepped into the flat with two bags of groceries, Sherlock was standing by the window, staring into the dark, captivating night.

"Alright, I don't want you to use up all the milk again, you've wasted three cartons in two days," John said as he unpacked the groceries. "Do you want dinner?"

No response.

"Sherlock?"

Normally John wouldn't expect an answer when Sherlock's on a case, but he's known him long enough to know, by his posture and the reflection of his eyes on the window glass, that something was not right.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked over to stand next to Sherlock. Neither of them spoke.

"What are you looking at?" John finally murmured.

It took a moment before Sherlock whispered, "At everything. At nothing."

John furrowed his brows.

"The city, the streets, and everything that goes with it, they move constantly, like clockwork, day and night, knowing and not knowing the little, yet _large_, malevolent corruptive energy lurking all around them. Nothing is ever in peace until they are dissolved… Into nothing."

"…Is this bothering you, then?"

Silence. "No."

John frowned. "Sherlock."

Sherlock straightened up with a deep breath, then turned to John with a tight smile. "You said something about dinner?"

_Moriarty is a threat. A challenge. A danger – to society, to humanity, to order._

_To everyone._

_To John._

…_I cannot risk John._

_But I will stop him, even if it kills me._

John sat in the living room, staring at the text on his phone. He had been home from work and Sherlock wasn't in the flat. It's been over a week – Sherlock worked on various random, vague cases, popping out of the flat randomly and never gave a clear answer whenever John asked what it was.

And whenever he offered help, Sherlock turned it down.

Today's reply particularly said, _There's no need to. SH_

John usually didn't take this to heart, but Sherlock had been avoiding him for a week so he couldn't help but feel slightly hurt. He decided not to respond and proceeded to make himself a cup of tea, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest.

Two weeks passed, and one night, John found himself lying awake on his bed, listening to the strange silence in the flat.

Silence.

No violin screeching, no furious typing on a Blackberry or a laptop, no sounds of experiment from the kitchen, and not even the slightest rustling of papers of case files being moved or flipped over.

He would think Sherlock was asleep, but looking at his behavior lately, John was starting to get worried. As if on cue, he heard footsteps heading out the door of their flat, the sound of a Belstaff coat being hurriedly snatched away, and the door being opened then quickly slammed shut.

John was going to get up, rush down, and confront him to stop whatever he was doing. But he knew better. It could have been important. Maybe it was his own feelings playing at him.

But in the back of his mind, he could feel the air changing.

_It felt different to not have John coming with. No blogger, no doctor, no colleague, no friend. John had probably felt different too. It wasn't right._

_But if this was what it takes, then I will do it. I will do anything._

_Anything for his life._

_Because I owed him so much, and I've done so little for him. The only person offering acceptance, understanding, and friendship._

_What have I ever done to deserve a John Watson?_

"Have you ever regretted meeting me?" Sherlock asked while typing on John's laptop.

John looked up from the newspaper, staring at Sherlock with an odd look. "What kind of question is that?"

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm just curious."

He folded the newspaper and leaned back. "When I got back from Afghanistan I didn't know what to do with my life. I got shot, then there's that limp, and… Being lost and useless was-"

"You're not useless."

John let himself smile. "Not anymore. Do you really still need an answer?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes."

John rolled his eyes. "No. No regrets. Except maybe when you set the kitchen on fire."

Sherlock chuckled and continued typing. "Good."

John was about to return to his newspaper but his mind started to wonder. "What if it never happened, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What if we never met each other?"

There was a second of pause before Sherlock continued typing. "I'd probably manage to blow up the entire flat."

"Mmm, and Mrs. Hudson would've kicked you out."

They both burst into laughter – John more of a giggling – and when it died down, John let his smile fall.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be alright?"

John sighed. "I don't know."

"…I'd rather not think of it though."

"Think of what?"

"What if we never met."

They were both looking down. "…Me neither."

What would they be without each other?

_I cannot sleep._

_There were no more signs of Moriarty's agents or henchmen that I could find. I've taken down many of them over the past few weeks, but not all of them. Not yet._

_John was never in any of this. But this is for him._

_There are still many more, and there is no way I could stop going on about it. It stays in my head. It won't leave. It's disturbing and haunting and none of it would stop._

_And everyone around me is in danger._

_And every time I close my eyes, the darkness and voices and _evil_ comes back._

John sat up with a gasp as he heard a loud sound of shattered glass downstairs.

"Sherlock?"

He got out from bed and rushed down to the kitchen. Sherlock was stumbling backwards, away from the broken glass and the spilled cold water on the floor.

"Oh God." He ran to Sherlock, avoiding the mess on the floor. He could see Sherlock shaking and his breathing very uneven. It wasn't just his feelings anymore – something really wasn't right. "What are you doing? Are you hurt?"

"No," Sherlock almost stuttered. "I was just getting water, it slipped. I'm fine. Go back to bed."

"You're anything but fine," John whispered. He took his shaky hand and pressed a palm over his forehead.

"I'm not ill," Sherlock assured him.

True, there were no signs of fever, but he could feel traces of cold sweat. John frowned and gently squeezed his hand. "Come on."

"John…"

Sherlock was guided to the sofa. "No, sit down, you're shaking. I'm going to make you tea."

So he waited, and a few minutes later, they sat next to each other on the sofa, holding a mug of tea each. They sat in silence for almost half an hour.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

John took a deep breath. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong now?"

"There's nothing wrong."

John tried not to look exasperated. "Fine. Now you have to go back to sleep."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want to."

"You haven't gotten enough sleep and I know you're exhausted, you have to at least try. I'll drag you to your room if I have to." John stood up and offered his hand. "Come on."

"…I can't sleep."

"See, something_ is_ bothering you. When do you plan to tell me?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

After many persuasions and a bit of John having to literally drag him to his room, Sherlock finally ended up in bed. John sat by his bedside all night, occasionally hushing him and whispering comforts whenever his sleep began to be disturbed by whatever was in his mind.

John knew. It wasn't sudden, it was eventual, and it was in the back of his mind but he was afraid to think of it. John knew.

Moriarty.

_This has gone for too long. It has to end. _He _has to end. And this is my responsibility. There is no turning back._

_This will end._

John was pacing up and down the flat. Sherlock was missing. He's been gone for two days, he hadn't texted, he hadn't called, and John had been asking everyone and looking everywhere.

He was now beyond worried. He was _scared_, what with the unspoken disturbance that had been going on for almost a month.

So when his phone rang out, John exhaled in relief. Finally.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" John almost screamed.

There were a few seconds of silence. "…John." His voice was soft and slightly strained.

"What's going on? Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." He took a deep breath. "Where are you now?"

"I'm still at home, but—"

"Are you alright?"

"What? I am, yeah—Look, where _are_ you?"

Sherlock breathed a relieved sigh, ignoring the question. "Good. Stay where you are."

"Not until _you_ tell me where you are."

"Look, John, I can't," Sherlock answered, his voice low. "Just… Just stay there, and… Stay safe."

The call ended, leaving John very frustrated. He ran his hand over his face. He had to do something.

Somewhere away from Baker Street, Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked up. "So you kept your promise."

"Of course I did," Moriarty replied with a devilish grin. "This is just _you and me_."

John grabbed his jacket and his gun and burst out of his flat. He ran outside, his hand fixed on the gun in his pocket as Sherlock's words to stay safe rang in his head.

He wasn't going to let Sherlock go on his own.

His phone buzzed just as he was trying to decide where to go. A text from an anonymous number.

_His life will end where yours began._

It could be a trick, it could be a trap, but John took his chance because he had nothing else to go on to.

He paced again, trying to work out what it meant. Where did his life begin? His birthplace came to mind, but no… And definitely not Afghanistan. So what was the beginning? When did it _really_ begin?

…Sherlock.

That was it; he began a new life for John Watson. But where?

Then, the St. Bart's hospital crossed his mind.

And he ran.

_John._

He ran for his life, he ran for Sherlock's life. He ran as fast as his legs could take him. He didn't care of anything else.

_I'm sorry I had to leave._

His lungs were gasping for breath. His heart was pumping and running and racing. His thoughts were scattered. His vision was clouded.

_I'm sorry I wasn't good enough._

He fought through the wind. He pushed through the crowd. He was never slowing down.

"God, please let him live."

_I'm sorry I risked your life._

He was almost there. He hoped he wasn't too late. His legs were throbbing. His chest was burning.

_I'm sorry I couldn't be a hero._

John finally arrived. As he made it there, his eyes went wide in horror and he hated himself _so much_.

After that, John didn't remember much.

He remembered crumpling down on his knees next to the broken, bleeding Sherlock, crying out his name. He remembered taking the unconscious body in his arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck, sobbing and panicking and murmuring incoherent things. There were red and blue rights surrounding them. There was Lestrade holding him as he tried to stand up. There were so many voices.

"He fell from up there? Oh God."

"He's dying! Get him to the hospital!"

"John? John. Get up."

"It's Moriarty. James Moriarty."

John found himself sitting in the waiting room in the hospital. And suddenly, Mycroft was next to him.

"We lost him, John."

His whole being went numb right then and there. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

But that didn't matter anymore, did it?

"Moriarty sent you that text," Mycroft sighed.

"I know."

Mycroft bit his lower lip, contemplating on what to say next. "He saw this coming. He's been taking down Moriarty's network, piece by piece. He simply couldn't rest until every last bit of him and his organization is destroyed."

"…This is what he kept from me?" John asked softly.

"It was personal," Mycroft calmly responded.

"I should've been there," John yelled to him, his voice cracking with his heart.

"No. Everything he did was to protect you."

And John understood. Sherlock kept his distance for his safety. The things he kept away were meant for him not to get hurt. He pushed him away to safe his life.

In the end, Moriarty didn't keep his promise to not hurt John. If Sherlock Holmes was going to die, he would make John Watson _watch_.

John closed his eyes and sunk his head, losing a sob.

That _idiot_.

The funeral felt like it went on forever. John couldn't bear to do anything but stand there. When everyone left, he finally found his ability to move.

He walked over to his grave. He knelt down. He cried.

He shook and shuddered and let himself fall into pieces. His mind was swimming, full of regrets.

John was sorry he wasn't there.

John was sorry he couldn't protect Sherlock.

John was sorry he was so useless.

John was sorry he let Sherlock down.

Their apologies went unspoken, but they didn't go unheard. The cool, gentle breeze carried their silent whispers to each other, brushing past their ears, all very surreal.

John tilted his head up, breathing deeply, blinking tears.

Sherlock stood outside the gate, hidden in the shadows, watching from afar.

There was no forgiveness for there was nothing to be forgiven.

And they could still feel each other.

_Hold on._


End file.
